


Wicked Girls

by en passant (corinthian)



Series: Faith & Guns [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 04:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2608652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinthian/pseuds/en%20passant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Middie’s voice is wry, slightly amused and only barely with an edge of warning. </p><p>“But you will, won’t you?” Dorothy turns triumphantly. </p><p>----</p><p>Mentions of sex and a brief cameo of 2x3. Companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2647154">Skinny Fists</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Girls

Fireworks are no replacement for real explosions. Dorothy likes them, though, they’re the best part of any post-war celebration. Annual parties are a bore, full of politicians trying to pretend they spent any time on the battlefield and soldiers who are too shell-shocked or too ecstatic to be worth her time. She does, if she can, attend parties where Quatre Winner visits, because she is still waiting for him to break down again. She will be Relena’s escort to any event — but Relena has to ask.

And that would be why she was alone, at some party held by some small-time politician, looking up at the fireworks that burst in the sky. Blues and greens, whites, the colors of peace and prosperity. Around her people murmur, applaud, press their bodies together in the dark and pretend it is the heady alcohol that has sent them down the path of lust.

What animals. But that makes her smile, when they act honesty, act childishly, bare their teeth in the dark and shed their daily pretenses.

The next array of fireworks explode and illuminate the field fully. To her right is a man running for senator, she suspects news of his affair will hit the papers in a few months and he’ll lose. Behind him is his entourage, young, hopeful, too young to have experienced the war. And then, even further behind them is a young woman, mostly plain in appearance, except for the wicked burst of scar tissue on the right side of her face.

Dorothy smiles and in cover of the darkness following the array, strides over to her. She can see the other woman’s clothes, also plain but nothing too shabby, she looks forgettable but like she belongs. The warm sweater is the right color — a rusty salmon — but the fabric is considerably cheaper than Dorothy’s own. And she’s wearing slacks, light gray that hang just a little too low over her very sensible shoes.

That doesn’t really matter.

Dorothy focuses on the scar, not caring if the other woman notices her gaze. The next burst of fireworks shows that it’s a mass of webbing, like a series of veins that have been burned into her skin. Lightning, or electrocution, Dorothy knows.

“Sorry, I know it’s pretty rough.” The woman says softly, catching Dorothy’s gaze. Her voice is kind with only the smallest bit of slur that indicates there are dead nerves in her jaw. But her eyes are sharp and there is an anger in them that sends a shiver down Dorothy’s spine.

“Oh no, don’t apologize at all. I was merely coming over to see if you wanted to get a drink with me.” Dorothy feels her smile widen.

“Middie. Middie Une.” A hand is offered.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Middie.” Dorothy clasps Middie’s hand, firmly presses their skin together and keeps staring. Middie doesn’t break the handshake and the anger in her eyes slowly melts away into a calm challenging look even as her lips quirk up.

“Same to you, Ms. . .?”

“Dorothy. Now, did you want to stay at this dull party or should we have some fun?” She leads Middie away from the crowd watching the fireworks even as she speaks. They descend down the hill and move towards the sidewalk, there’s several bars close enough to walk, even in Dorothy’s heels.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Middie’s voice is wry, slightly amused and only barely with an edge of warning. 

“But you will, won’t you?” Dorothy turns triumphantly. She releases Middie’s hand and leans closer to her. She knows that her own face is openly predatory and that it clashes with the emerald green dress she’s wearing. She likes it that way.

Middie doesn’t smile, she does the opposite. Her lips draw into a frown, but again her eyes don’t match. 

“I wonder, just how much it would be worth it to reject you.” And it’s then that Dorothy sees the full honesty in the expression. The hard lines of Middie’s lips and the veil in her eyes that speaks of distrust and a barely contained urge to slap her, shoot her or use her.

“My, you’re just like a wounded animal, aren’t you? Do you feel that threatened, Ms. Middie?” Dorothy wants to laugh, but she knows she’s too far into the game now to show her mirth, not yet anyway. And she leans closer.

“Are you a threatening person, Dorothy? I would say that instead, you’re just toying with me because there’s something you want from me, but it doesn’t have such high stakes. Do you want to have sex with me? Or is it this?” Middie turns her face, shows off the scar and her teeth are bared a little. The muscles in her jaw are taut, scar tissue whitening with her strain. “If so, perhaps, you should tell me exactly what you’ll pay for it.”

“I thought it was obvious. Drinks.” Dorothy doesn’t take the bait. She has her reward when Middie smiles back then, wolfishly and still startlingly obvious in her own predatory nature. 

“Make it worth my time.” Middie’s voice drops, and with it her lips and she presses a soft kiss to Dorothy’s mouth. It is an invitation. Dorothy takes it — cups just one cheek, the scarred one of course — returns the kiss in the same soft and uninvasive way.

They pull away and Middie has one eyebrow up, she clicks her tongue. “Not worth it yet.” She says.

—

It only takes them a week to fuck. Middie’s apartment is small but comfortable. There’s something disgustingly plain about it, though, and Dorothy refuses to have dinner or have sex there. She says so, the first time she sees it. It makes Middie laugh, a low and rough sound that must be years of disuse making themselves known.

So they spend more of their time at Dorothy’s. Her apartment is bigger, better, ornate and has personality. There is an armoire with swords in it, there is fencing gear, her bathtub has clawed feet and there are rows of bath salts and exotic soaps.

“This is aggressively you,” Middie says, the first time she enters. “I’m not sure I like it.” She adds. That night they have dinner and play chess and Dorothy finds out that Middie is a good chess player but an even better liar. Middie tells Dorothy a story about a boy she met in the mercenary camps who she killed. It’s such a fable it makes Dorothy laugh.

Two nights later they meet on neutral ground, an expensive restaurant, where they hold hands across the table and pretend they are both a very different kind of woman. Middie spends the night smiling softly and ducking her face behind her hair and Dorothy does her best Relena Peacecraft impression. The humor of the situation is lost on their waiter, who keeps trying to refill their already full water glasses.

Middie offers, offhand — “You could let me have you.” There’s no innuendo to bend her words, but she’s leaning closer and they have just kissed and the heat on Dorothy’s cheeks isn’t a blush.

“Just like that?” Dorothy asks. She means to be challenging, but to her ears it only sounds aggressive, there’s no taunt. It sounds like she’s angry. Middie’s lips twist, amusement.

“Just like that.” She agrees, like it’s a contract they’ve agreed to change. Or a transaction. Dorothy should be angrier but instead she leans back against the couch, lets her legs fall open and speaks to the ceiling.

“Make it worth my time.”

Middie hikes up Dorothy’s skirt, carefully folding it up just enough. She rolls down Dorothy’s knee socks with clinical disdain and then presses a gentle kiss to Dorothy’s knee. She trails kisses up her leg, each one precise and cold.

“Have you done this before?” Dorothy asks and her voice is even.

“Yes.” Middie says and she presses her scarred cheek against the inside of Dorothy’s thigh.

“With who?” Dorothy’s voice is no longer even.

“Whoever I needed to.” Middie’s voice is quieter and lodges somewhere in the back of Dorothy’s spine. And then there aren’t any words at all, just Middie’s soft kisses with alternating sharp bites that are in no way kind. She drags Dorothy’s hips up to the arm of the couch and her fingernails draw blood from Dorothy’s knees. 

This isn’t pleasant at all, Dorothy thinks, because Middie’s tongue against her clit sends fire down her spine and to the bottoms of her feet. It isn’t quite painful but it isn’t the warm lovely sensation she thinks it will be either.

“How did you — get your scar? Did — a man do that to you? When you offered him sex?” And so Dorothy is cruel and she draws her knees in. Middie doesn’t answer, but one of her hands — left? — drags down Dorothy’s leg, makes soft circles against her hip and then her fingers curl against Dorothy’s vagina. “Or maybe you did it to yourself. It’s lovely — you know.”

She thinks, maybe, Middie laughs then, but then Middie’s fingers slip inside and the burning on the soles of her feet and her back slips into white hot pleasure and there’s nothing else to say.

—

The morning after Middie tells Dorothy, abruptly, that she lied. She never killed that mercenary boy, she just took everything away from him. Dorothy thinks there is something like regret in Middie’s voice, but it’s strange and silken and sounds very close to pleasure. It warms her to think of it as both and she kisses her.

—

War parties are much more tolerable with Middie at her side. They trade observations about the senators and have running bets about which ones will oust themselves for the disgusting wastes of space that they are. Dorothy introduces Middie to each of Quatre’s friends and to Relena.

Relena takes Middie the best. She invites them to tea and wraps Middie’s one hand with both of hers and says she’s just so happy that Dorothy has found such a dear friend. Middie’s smile is only barely strained and she replies that she’s so glad that Relena has once been Dorothy’s _very good friend_. The joke is lost, because Relena then honestly and painfully admits that she hated Dorothy at first but now finds her indispensable. 

“And this, is Trowa Barton.” And then Dorothy introduces Middie to _him_. She knows him, of course. He’s the little mercenary boy she lied about. She’s the only boy she’s dreamed of and the one that makes her wake up in the middle of the night and press a soft kiss to the small of Dorothy’s back, like a prayer for forgiveness. Of course, he’s also the only one she had used so easily and reveled in it.

He’s still that boy. She can tell because his eyes don’t look away, don’t drop to the ground, instead there’s a slow blink like the curtains being drawn on a window and he offers his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Middie Une.” He says and his voice is as dead as any war victim. She takes his hand and shakes it and wants to gouge her fingernails into his skin and make him react.

“Same here, Mr. Barton.” She says, brightly.

Dorothy watches the interaction and her grin is positively cataclysmic. She pulls Middie away soon after, slides an arm around her waist and is breathless.

“You know him already.” Dorothy is smug. Middie shakes her head, not in denial but to duck her head and look submissive and soft. Vulnerable. It’s her wounded animal look, with her lips pressed firmly down over her teeth so no one can see her snarl. Dorothy loves it.

“I do.”

“Let’s have drinks with him later.” Dorothy kisses her. Middie kisses back, all teeth and a strange kind of desperation she thought she left behind when the war ended.

They have sex in the back room, and then again on the stairs leading outside. It’s frenzied, rough and then they leave the party because Dorothy is still gleeful and Middie has more feelings to bury in her body.

—

It’s a few months before they can wheedle Trowa into having drinks with them. He politely refuses all of Middie’s calls and Dorothy has to ask a favor of Quatre to make it happen. If Quatre knows something is amiss he doesn’t point it out — but he does tell Dorothy to be careful.

They meet on Dorothy’s turf, an expensive bar that is invite only. Middie and Dorothy arrive first and secure a booth and are halfway through their first drinks before Trowa arrives. He brought another of the pilots with him, Duo Maxwell and they seem quite the mismatched pair. Trowa is silent and tense, sitting next to Dorothy rather than Middie. Duo, for his part, is buoyant and loose, eagerly placing himself next to Middie.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Duo’s voice is loud, cheerful and inviting. Middie smiles her soft smile at him, but lets her eyes drift to Trowa.

“It’s always nice to reconnect with old friends from the war.” She says.

Dorothy laughs and they order drinks for the men too. Then she leans in to Middie’s neck and whispers, “You’ve made him very upset.” It’s quiet enough that neither man should be able to hear but the gesture is intimate _enough._

“Did you finally learn how to shed tears?” Trowa asks and Middie wonders if it’s meant for her before she hears Dorothy’s sharp intake of breath.

“Is that something you want to ask me, now? It’s been _years_ and we all grow up.” But Dorothy’s smile is brittle. Duo’s gaze flickers between them and even his joke — something about age and friends and fine wine — falls flat.

Middie figures since Trowa attacked first it’s only fair game. “You were always such a bad judge of character, No Name.” 

Trowa, who was lifting his glass to drink, carefully places it on the table and both of his hands drop out of sight. Middie imagines he might be clenching his fists, or worrying at his fingernails, or maybe even seeking out comfort from Duo. How odd, he had been such a distant boy she wouldn’t have thought he would show up with a friend.

“What, do we have to do introductions again?” Duo sighs dramatically. “I’m Duo Maxwell, you know, famous war hero and all of that. And that — _that_ — is the drop dead gorgeous Trowa Barton.” His finger makes circles in the air, pointing vaguely at Trowa. And he leans closer to him, grinning widely, his own intimate gesture.

“We did hear that the first time, but you’ll have to forgive it for slipping my mind. Some people are just forgettable.” Dorothy’s easy reply carries an edge. Middie would be content to sit back and watch, she always did enjoy Dorothy’s shrewd aggression but then she sees the crucifix hanging from Duo’s neck. It looks new, recently bought.

“Some things never change, do they? I’m surprised, I would have thought that faith made a big enough fool of you before, No Name.” She says it again. She knows she’s being cruel and it shows in the way Duo’s expression falls, falters and then collapses into anger. Trowa’s expression stays level, but his lips twitch and she knows he is trying to decide if he should withdraw further into himself.

Dorothy’s hand on her thigh squeezes, her thumb rubs pleasantly against her. They both can feel the power in the moment and even as it turns Middie’s stomach — wasn’t she better than this, once? The bitterness of the unexpected meeting, of him returning to her life and her own guilt pushes that aside. She’s still someone who protects herself first, even if that means trying to rip him apart again.

(Later, later she’ll try to fix this, she thinks.)

Duo is going to yell, or cut into her with his words. He starts to but Trowa puts a hand on his shoulder. They share another quiet intimate moment and Middie wants to laugh until she’s sick. She was too right, far too correct in her assessment. Faith has taken him again and saddled him to another person, only this time instead of treacherous Middie it’s Duo Maxwell.

She’s angry.

“I’m glad you got out, Middie.” Trowa says and the honesty flays her alive and steals her breath. “How are your brothers?” And then his eyes fall on her scar and don’t move. He’s pitying her.

“I can’t do this.” She confesses to Dorothy. Middie buries her face in her hands and her breath hiccups and stalls, she is sobbing without tears and even Dorothy’s arm around her shoulders and the venom she sends at Trowa in a glare does nothing to bring her back.

“You don’t have to, you know.” Duo offers, but it’s not enough to buoy her either.

“I still hate you,” Middie won’t look at Trowa, she can’t, “My father died anyway. My brothers are fine — I just — _Trowa_.”

He doesn’t pity her enough to let her finish. 

—

“Are you going to break up with me now?” Middie asks Dorothy. She’s sitting in the large bay window at Dorothy’s apartment wearing just a shirt. They had sex again, after they left the bar. They had sex and then Middie had cried and Dorothy had taught her how to swordfight and then they had fallen asleep. “You were right the first night.”

“That you’re a wounded animal?” Dorothy sneers, she knew that. That had been the charm, after all. Middie Une who was so aggressive and could be whichever girl Dorothy wanted her to be but was constantly doubled over on herself to hide her weak points. “No.”

“I got this,” Her shoulder jerks up to indicate her scar, “Because I wasn’t good enough and I was caught. I thought he was going to taser me, but instead he opened up one of the control panels, with a live wire, and smashed my face into it. I should be glad though, because the next person who wanted me told me I was too ugly.” Her smile twists bitter but triumphant. It’s her badge of pride, now, because even barren of any other weapons she has her scar and she’s survived.

“It’s a very attractive quality of yours.” Dorothy agrees. “Your little mercenary boy doesn’t get it, though.” She had seen the pity too and wondered if Trowa was perhaps just entirely deficient when it came to judging the feelings of women. Dorothy could cry, she could shed tears if she wanted to and Middie wasn’t someone to be pitied.

“I loved him.”

“So? I loved war.”

That makes Middie laugh — her raspy, too honest laugh.

“Do you still?”

“No, it was never any good for me, but I loved it when I was a girl. I’m older and wiser than that now.”

“Are you calling me immature?”

“You should be proud of your little boy, he grew up and fought in my war and he’s glad you’re alive too.”

Middie didn’t know what to say to that. She could argue, she could confess again. She could say something else entirely or thank Dorothy. They didn’t have a relationship like that, though. Dorothy who still chased her own ex-lover in Middie’s roughness and scars.

“I fought in your war too,” Middie grins, all teeth.

And this time, it’s Dorothy who laughs honestly.


End file.
